


Every Night and Every Morn, Some to Misery are Born

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Baskerville - Freeform, Bat!John, Batjohn - Freeform, Gen, Genetics, John Watson is turned into a bat, M/M, and how real people might react to such a situation, batlock, kafka-esq transformation, physical mutation, secondary mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The better question is what haven't they tried,” Sherlock drawls, words muffled by exhaustion and cotton. “Every biological experiment conducted within that facility is intended to one day be attempted on a human subject."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night and Every Morn, Some to Misery are Born

**Author's Note:**

> The goal here was to write a canon-compliant batjohn fic, and this started as a fancy-free 'John gets turned into a bat, how funny' kind of story, but it evolved into something a little more serious. So, I hope you enjoy this alternative take on the batjohn trope.

 

 

“Sherlock.”

“No.”

There’s a soft tickle at the back of John’s throat, and he coughs.

“John...stop thinking.”

And this is John Watson’s life: bundled up in scratchy bedsheets in a small hotel in a tiny village up in arms over a non-existent spectral hound.

“If Stapleton could turn a rabbit into a nightlight, what else do you think she’s done?”

Sherlock groans from where his face is pushed into his pillow.

“The better question is what _haven't_ they tried,” He says, words muffled by exhaustion and cotton. “Every biological experiment conducted within that facility is intended to one day be attempted on a human subject; and as you’ve so clearly seen already, there is no limit to the imagination when one is attempting to off an enemy.”

John rolls to face Sherlock, only mildly irritated by the empty space between the beds, and meets the other man’s irritated gaze.

“Don’t think I’m going to forget that you drugged me.”

“That is...completely irrelevant at this point.”

“Oh, I bet.”

The itch is still there, and John shuffles the sheets to massage the column of his throat with deft fingers.

“What’s _wrong_ with you now?”

“I think I picked up a bit of a bug.”

“Well do try to refrain from infecting me, I’d rather not join you as one of the diseased.”

“No sex. Right. Thanks for the concern, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunts and rolls away, hiking the comforter over his head, and John is once more alone with his thoughts.

“ _John!_ ”

“Alright, alright, no need to shout.”

John coughs again, the burning spreading to his chest, and he scratches at his throat reflexively, attempting to relieve some of the discomfort. He falls asleep listening to Sherlock’s snuffling breaths and the sound of fingernails on skin.

 

* * *

 

John wakes up aching and at first tries to write off the feeling as residual soreness from the previous few days spent romping through Dewar’s Hollow. He wrestles with the sheets, still too tired to follow through with his desire to actually get out from under the soft warmth of the comforter. He distantly notes that Sherlock’s bed is empty, but he’s exhausted and doesn’t give the thought much weight.

His doesn’t register that Sherlock is in fact perched on a chair opposite John’s own bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, positively glowing with excitement.

“John.” He whispers. ” _John._ ”

“Sh’rlock,” John mumbles back, tongue heavy, flitting between lucidity and unconsciousness.

“You said you had a _virus_.”

John doesn’t respond, he’s already fallen back asleep.

 

* * *

  

John moves to scratch the stubble on his cheek and curses when he nicks the skin with a nail.

“Careful, John. Just be _very_ careful.”

The room is still dark, save for the morning light edging the thick curtains.

“What are you going on about?”

“I didn’t do this, but oh, If I had,”

“Alright, what is it? Have I suddenly grown an extra appendage for you to marvel at?” 

“John your grasp of the obvious is astounding, as always.”

John follows Sherlock’s gaze and looks down at his chest only to be met with an expanse of wiry brown fur.

“Damn-it, Sherlock. What’s this now? Dress me up like a dog so we can scare the locals?”

Sherlock’s eyes are manically bright as he shakes his head.

“Not a _dog_ , John. You don’t feel ill at all?”

John resists the urge to curse and pulls the sheet -- his last vestige of modesty -- away to see his boxer shorts and more fur. Even his feet have some kind of prosthetic glued on them, the skin looking black and waxy

“How did you even do this without waking me? Don’t answer that.”

Sherlock stays blissfully silent and John rubs at the small cut on his cheek gently before more brown catches his eye. He takes a hard look at his arm, which Sherlock has somehow managed to encase in the same leather as his feet, but this time with angry looking claws attached, and John can only smile at the trailing fabric that makes up what looks like a wing.

“Not a dog.” Sherlock says again, and leaps from his seat to pace the room.

“You know, I’m almost impressed you managed to pull this together in a day.”

John tugs on the chest fur lightly, claw-fingers sliding slightly.

“Now how do I get it off?”

John moves to his left arm and pulls at the wing, bunching the soft material tightly and pulling. Not only does the action hurt immensely, but the fabric doesn’t give. John rolls off the bed and hobbles to the window to get a better look. He rips the shades open and the sudden flood of light blinds him, reflexively he brings an arm up to shield himself. 

When his eyes clear he’s looking _through_ the fabric-skin, the thin flesh and veins of his forearm trailing down into a paper-thin membrane attached to his torso, and there is no possible way that Sherlock would be able to manage that kind of medical accuracy in a prank.

“Bloody--”

John looks down at his furred chest and his black-taloned feet.  He looks at his arms and the skin growths. He pulls the elastic of underwear out and examines himself, and he does the only thing he can do.

He yells.

“What is this? What did you do?”

“I already told you, I am in no way responsible for whatever has occurred here.”

“Sherlock, what, why, _how_?”

“I’ve been thinking,”

“Oh, how wonderful for you that you’ve taken the time to meditate on the fact that I’m the bloody wolfman!”

“John, anger will get us no closer to a solution,”

“A solution? The solution is that I wake up from this nightmare with ten toes and ten fingers and a cock!”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m sure you still have gender appropriate genitalia--”

“But for what _species,_ Sherlock?”John asks in exasperation, the interfemoral membrane of the wings fluttering amid his adrenaline fueled panic.

John catches his reflection in the mirror.

“What are those? Are those my ears?”

“Plecotus austriacus,” Sherlock says, circling round John like some deranged predator. “Order Chiroptera, family Vespertilionidae,”

“Sherlock!”

“Surely your new form has not made you _thick_. You must be a grey long-eared bat, not to be confused with the slightly more common _brown_ long-eared bat which has a darker belly and is a _tiny_ bit smaller, but a bat, nonetheless. You must have stumbled into something at Baskerville,”

John looks down at the _slightly_ darker fur covering his torso with barely concealed rage.

“Oh, so this happens regularly, does it? People getting turned into animals? Correct me if I’m wrong, because I know you will, but I’ve been operating under the assumption that _this doesn’t happen in real life_!”

But Sherlock has disappeared from the room entirely. John waits a beat, flexing his ‘fingers’ experimentally only to have his whole wing/arm thing shudder, before Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, a pair of tweezers held purposefully in hand. John balks slightly the sight, pulling his ‘wings’ in tight to his chest and scrambling across the bed away from Sherlock.

“No. No, no, no, you are not taking samples.”

“John, be reasonable, this is unprecedented.”

“Damn your reason!”

“John, you are, as far as appearances go, a human-flying mammal hybrid. Evidently the product of morally questionable research conducted by government sanctioned geneticists operating in a secret military facility that we very recently gained access to. I believe the answer is quite clear.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“We have to keep you here, away from prying eyes and under _my_ care, lest you be dragged back to Baskerville and vivisected.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful, isn’t it? Then how, pray tell, do we fix this?”

“I’m working on it. Somehow we have to get you back to Baker Street.”

“Don’t we still have the car?”

“Yes, but we’ve also got Lestrade poking about.”

“Maybe it’ll just wear off,”

“I highly doubt a complete restructuring of your genetic code will simply just ‘ _wear off_ ’-”

Sherlock pulls his greatcoat from the closet and drapes it over John’s shoulders, hiding the wings effectively, but still leaving his oversized ears for all to see.

“I don’t suppose we can just throw a blanket over me and hope for the best?”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and prods lightly at the membrane that makes up John’s new ears, before using the palms of his hands to push the tips down and bend the appendages at the middle. John hisses and wriggles away from the touch, swatting at Sherlock with a wing tip.

“Oh don’t tell me that hurt.”

“How would you know? Are you suddenly the world’s foremost authority on bat-people?”

Sherlock moves to speak and John stops him.

“Don’t answer that. Not that you care, but that _does hurt_. Give me your arm, let me see how far it bends before the bones snap.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s not even a legitimate comparison.”

“Oh, because my ears are just soft tissue and cartilage? Let me see what I can do with your cock then. Go on. Get it up, _so I can snap it in half_.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,”

“Really? You don’t understand? What a shock.”

“No need to get testy, John.”

“Just get Lestrade so we can get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not sure involving Scotland Yard it the best course of action.”

“Do we really have a better option at this point?”

Sherlock nods and is out the door in a heartbeat, leaving John alone with only his thoughts and the genetic aberration that is his physical body.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock returns with Lestrade in tow, and John has little warning before the two men stride into the room.

Greg gives John a once over and whistles.

“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” 

“I explained everything on the way over,” Sherlock reminds, features pinched in irritation; but Greg continues unperturbed, gaze steady as he examines John’s new form.

“You both managed your way onto a military base using stolen identification; wherein you discovered a government research lab that specialized in biological and chemical warfare. So far so good, yeah? Now, through that experience you both manage to determine that the hound is a byproduct of a hallucinogenic chemical that had been developed by a mad scientist; and somewhere in there, John was exposed to something that mutated him into a half-bat creature.”

“That’s about it,” John says, looking between Sherlock and Lestrade, ears twitching lightly.

“Alright then. How do we know we’re not hallucinating now?”

“Don’t be thick,” Sherlock circles around the bed, gesturing toward Lestrade with a wild hand, “and _do not_ call Mycroft.”

“Why in god’s name would I call your brother about something like this?”

“Aren’t you two seeing each other?” John asks, and Greg makes a face.

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but we go out for drinks on occasion.”

Sherlock laughs and drops to his knees, hunting for his overnight bag.

“A little more than drinks, I think. Have you two started fucking yet?”

“ _Sherlock_. I’m sorry, Greg.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. People seem to forget how long I’ve known Sherlock.”

The normalcy of the moment is almost enough to make John forget about the Kafka-esq horror that has occurred in the night.

Almost.

“I’m pleased that everyone is comfortable with the fact that I am literally a bat, but how do we get out of here without attracting attention?”

“Well, Scotland Yard declared the hound a hoax, why don’t we do the same to you?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Sherlock rises from the floor and points at John’s wings with his free hand.

“Lestrade arrests you for trying to start a new urban legend and disturbing the peace. Tourists are idiots and they’ll assume you’re in costume.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at all,” Greg rocks back on his heels. “I’ll just pull my car around, shall I?”

“We’ll have to take the Range Rover,” Sherlock mutters, stuffing John’s toiletries into his pack. “John’s too misshapen to fit in a mid-size.”

John doesn’t know is he should be offended or not.

 

* * *

 

“How dare you come up here and take advantage of these nice folk! Scaring innocent people for laughs, you ought to be ashamed!”

Greg drags John out into the road, past curious gazes and questioning stares and quells the murmurs with a show of his badge before bundling John into the Range Rover idling off a side street. 

“It’s bad enough they’ve got some mystery hound, and now you causing a fuss with this ‘bat’ nonsense.” Greg pitches loudly, enough for bystanders to hear. “We’ll see how funny it is when we get you back to Scotland Yard.”

This is how they get John out of Dartmoor.

 

* * *

 

The drive back to London is uneventful, but one would hardly notice given the frayed nerves and general paranoia  the atmosphere around those in the vehicle.

“Based on your size and body mass, which has remained unchanged, I don’t believe you’ll be capable of sustained flight, but it is likely you’ll be able to glide for short distances. Longer with training.”

John just looks at Sherlock, who has spun around in the passenger seat to address him face-to-face.

“And how long, exactly, do you estimate John staying like this? I still think it would have been a better idea to go back to Baskerville. Something there did this, it only stands to reason they’d have the ability to undo it.”

“If only reason were fact, Lestrade. We go back now and John will be in a cage for the rest of his days and we’ll likely be shot.”

“ _Shot?_ For what?”

“Do you really think we can go into a military facility and wave John about looking like that? _Oh_ ,” Sherlock mocks, motioning toward John, who’s wings take up the entire second row of seats. “ _Yes, hello, can you fix our friend here? If you could just reverse whatever it is you did that made him into a genetic marvel years ahead of its time, we’ll be on our way._ ”

“John’s a person, he has rights,”

“Right now John’s not even human.”

“ _I am right here_.”

“You should speak to Mycroft.”

“I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

“What _satisfaction_? You can’t go back to Baskerville, they know your face and who you are. If anything, Mycroft can help you get a foot in the door.”

“ _How is_ the diet going?” Sherlock counters, brow furrowed as he watches the passing scenery. Lestrade takes the question in stride, his voice even as he responds.

“Not dieting, not anymore. It’s not productive and it’s turning his metabolism to shit, so he’s started jogging with me in the mornings.”

Sherlock grunts and remains silent, so Greg starts on John.

“What’s your opinion on all of this, John? This is happening to you, after all.”

“I’m not really sure what to think anymore, to be honest. I mean, look at me. In what world is this a thing that happens to ordinary blokes?”

“Apparently this one.” Sherlock mutters.

 

* * *

 

A half hour out the sun moves from behind the clouds and John is literally blinded. He tries to hide his face in his hands, but seeing as he no longer has hands the attempt only serves to infuriate him.

“Sherlock, I can’t see,”

“Really? Fascinating.”

“No, _I can’t see,_ ” he hisses again, trying to hide from the sun, and Lestrade is the first to put two and two together.

“Light sensitivity?” Greg asks, and John can only groan as his head throbs. “Sherlock, give him your coat back.”

“Get settled, keep me posted, and let me know if you change your mind about Mycroft.”

“Will do.” John manages from under the fine wool of Sherlock’s coat.

He misses the look the other two men share. 

 

* * *

  

“So thats it. You’re just going to act like I’m not me. When you going to ship me off then? Or pin me to cork-board like that poor bastard.” John motions to the mantle boldly, but the act loses some momentum when he accidentally knocks a mug over with his wing.

“John, we are on a case. Better yet, you _are_ the case, and until everything is back to rights, I can afford no time to emotional sentiment or affection. Not when I don’t know what is afflicting you or how to resolve it.”

Sherlock spins in his seat, the harsh light of the computer monitor illuminating his tired features in the darkness.

“Please do not confuse my behavior with romantic disinterest, but I will not waste my time consoling you if that waste may compromise your health or physical safety. I understand if my actions are sending mixed messages, but I would rather you be alive and uncomfortable at Baker Street than in cold storage at Baskerville. ”

John doesn’t have a response, his throat too tight for words and mouth too dry, and by the time he can find his voice, Sherlock has already returned to his typing.

“If you’re concerned about our relationship, take a hard look at the fact that I am still attracted to you; albeit a genetically mutated version of your former self.”

John forces a laugh past the obvious social awkwardness of the statement.

“Is this some sort of fetish you’ve neglected to tell me about?”

“Not a fetish, or a perversion, simply the reality of my attraction to your conscious mind rather than your physical form.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome. Now be quiet so I can think.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh! Oh, my god,”

“Molly.”

“John, what happened to you?”

“We’re working on that.”

 

* * *

 

“This should do it, right?”

“Oh, well, it did something.”

“No, no, Molly, tell me this didn’t just happen.”

“Umm, well...”

The morgue door slams open and Sherlock skids to a halt beside Molly, face flushed and breathing heavily.

“I managed to outmaneuver my brother, now the only deterrent left will be showing off a decidedly normal-looking ‘ _Dr. Watson’_. Where has he gotten off to?”

A soft sound of protest comes from the autopsy table and Molly shuffles her feet, expression apologetic.

“We knew it would go one way or the other,” She grimaces at her own explanation. “Now I guess he’s a bit more, umm, ‘bat-sized’ than we’d hoped.”

Sherlock leans down to put himself at eye-level with John, who himself is tottering around the tabletop, sliding slightly as his claws are unable to make purchase on the slick metal.

“I’m a bat, Sherlock.” He says, trying unsuccessfully to use his spread wings like a balance bar. “I am a bat, and it is entirely your fault.”

“I know, John, and I’m going to fix it.” 

"How, Sherlock? This isn't getting better on it's own, and you are not a geneticist."

 "I'll figure it out."

"Maybe you won't. There is no way to reclaim that much lost body mass and there is literally no way to recover that level of bone and tissue," John pulls his wings in tight and his legs give out beneath him, dropping him softly to the cool metal.

"I'm a bat. I'm going to stay a bat."

Sherlock watches him with hard eyes and nods slowly.

"I know."

 

* * *

 


End file.
